It's Polly's birthday today. She was born on the first of August, my dad on the first of December, so she chose the first of March as a wedding day to keep everything consistent. I was a little bit surprised that she didn't hold out until the first of June to die, since she was so close, but it was May 30, 2001.
I'm not going to write a Happy Birthday letter to a dead person, because I don't really think she's reading my blog from on high. I miss her. It sucks that she's gone. I wish she could have stuck around longer, met the rest of her grandkids, seen me (finally) in a good relationship, seen A. (finally) in a good relationship. I miss her mostly at birthdays and holidays -- no one did those better than she did, she was perfect in a Martha Stewart kind of way, which sounds frightening but was actually really great. It's comforting to have someone so reliable in your family making such good food, giving such good gifts, keeping such a beautiful house. I miss her sneaky little smile, the way her skin looked like gold, the way she filed her nails out to a rounded point. I miss the peach fuzz on her cheek, the way she moved around the kitchen. I miss her letters, always full of information about what was going on outside her studio window -- the animals, the snow, the trees. I always felt perfectly safe and happy in her house, cocooned in her warm embrace, and now it and she are gone from me forever.
My dad gets back from the Vineyard today, and he and his girlfriend are making preparations for her to move in with him. People, it is true, get on with their lives. And my dad has never been fond of being alone. I'm happy for him, and she seems nice, and that's all fine with me.
But brain tumors suck.